We hadn’t so much as sniffed a drop: but still
We staggered back like villains. Not yet night,
The evening hadn’t petrified: the sky
Was not stone-black but ochre, molten, vast
In consequence and crazed inconsequence:
Clouds fell like wounded soldiers, wings ablaze,
Portrayed in crimson-spilt angelic war;
The vapour trails of planes played tricks on us,
Demonstrating such finality,
Yet gentle definition to their form.
And I too burnt from laughter. Could not stay
One moment longer: gasping out, you smile,
A hardly-hidden, rude conspiracy:
We’d never known such awful company.
To call it a night, we’d said, before too late,
Before the blood weighed heavy in our limbs,
Our lungs, our eyes: to leave on a good night,
To dance like villains into the street, a fire
Alight from heaven’s war above our heads:
I’d say, the perfect time, to call it a night.
For Jac, who has chuckled and giggled and conspired with me on many an evening, under many different skies.